


Hiding The Pages, Raziel's Words To Rumplestiltskin

by MsMeiriona



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMeiriona/pseuds/MsMeiriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dark Castle holds a collection of priceless artefacts, all well protected. What better a place to store knowledge so powerful it dare not be used nor destroyed?</p><p>When Phedre and Joscelin seek to make a deal, the anguissette can't help but try to insert Blessed Elua's precept into the lives of Rumplestiltskin and his young caretaker.</p><p>"Love as thou wilt" has never before been such a terrifying proposal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is set during the midway period of Imriel's saga, so spoilers through that point in the Kushiel-verse.

Hiding The Pages, Raziel's Words To Rumplestiltskin.  
  
  
                "The Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève and Messire Joscelin Verreuil have come to see you for a bargain." Belle seemed perplexed, not used to announcing guests, but Rumplestiltskin had been in his lab working, and wouldn't be bothered to answer the door himself. They had spoken in the scholar's tongue, after a few false starts with languages so bizarre she was certain they were from another world entirely. This pair seemed to be known to him, however, so at least she wouldn't be told off for letting them in.  
  
                 "The _anguissette_? What in seven hells does she want?"  
  
                "She didn't tell me, only said it was a bargain you would wish to make."  
  
                Rumplestiltskin made a sound of disgust. "Show them in, offer them drinks, try to get the Cassiline to disarm, but don't be surprised if he doesn't. He can't hurt me, but making him refuse will irk him."  
  
                Belle was starting to appreciate that he would explain his motivations to her now, occasionally. About time, too. It wasn't as if she couldn't be trusted. It had been a month and she hadn't complained about anything besides the dungeon, which was an empty threat.  
  
                Hurrying back to the entry hall, she escorted the pair in, glancing at them from under lowered lashes.   
  
                They were a mismatched pair, that was certain, but Belle wasn't one to throw stones in a glass house. She, somewhat slight, with curls of sable hair cascading down her back, fair ivory skin with only the slightest creases around her eyes to mark her age. She was dressed richly, in a gown of deep red that clung to her form like a second skin, pinned with gold at the sides, arms bare, and a cloak of that same red, the colour of blood spilled by moonlight. Her consort's face was noble, but lined, fair hair braided down his back and clear blue eyes showing his devotion. He was dressed much more conservatively, in grey and blue, with a sword slung across his back, and twin daggers at his waist. His build was lean and strong, and he moved with an uncanny grace. Worn steel vambraces covered his arms, and he wore an expression that suggested he would rather be elsewhere. Vambraces crossed at his chest, he bowed, and his lady smiled, a glint in her deep brown eyes, where in the left a pinprick of red could be seen, like a rose petal on dark waters.

  
                "It seems your Tsinigano was right." The man said, a half disguised smile on his features.   
  
                "When have you known Hyacinthe to be wrong, love?" It was a tease, and Phèdre slipped the cloak from her shoulders, folding it over one pale arm.  
  
                The bond between the two was so strong it could be felt by any who merely looked at them. It made Belle rather uncomfortable, and she flushed slightly. "I would ask that you not bear arms in the castle, Messire Verreuil, and bid you and the Comtesse have a drink while you await the master."

                Joscelin prickled at the request, and even after Phèdre laid a hand on his arm, he shook his head. "In Cassiel's name, I protect and serve. I will not be unarmed where my lady is in danger."  
  
                "As you will." Belle had no idea what that meant, but she had been told not to expect compliance, so it hardly mattered. She poured wine into two silver goblets, and left the pair to wait. The Comtesse availed herself of the drink with no hesitation, obviously not worried about poison, which made her quite brave in Belle's eyes.  
  
                She returned to Rumplestiltskin in his lab. "He wouldn't disarm, just as you said. Do you want me to-"  
  
                "Send her up. Alone. You can chatter with the Cassiline until we're done, I'll not have him breathing down my neck as I work."  
  
                Something was different in his manner, but Belle had no time to think on it, he'd already dismissed her.   
  
                "The Comtesse will be received in the workroom, Messire Verreuil must wait here." She waited for the protest, possibly insults thrown her way. Phèdre simply sighed and shook her head.  
  
                "I thought as much. Very well. It may be a long while, Joscelin; you know Rumplestiltskin bargains like an adept of Bryony house, and he's as clever as my lord Delaunay."  
  
                "And as treacherous as Melisande __Shahrizai__ , and powerful as Rahab. Be careful Phèdre. Do not offer him anything you might regret."

  
  
                The Comtesse's eyes were solemn as she ascended the stairs, and Belle wondered what the story was between these two. How had a pair so obviously happily in love come to make bargains with Rumplestiltskin of all beings? They didn't appear to be run away, and they seemed to have been together long enough that it couldn't be a forbidden tryst. Perhaps politics? Or children? She immediately pushed away the thought, what was she, a common gossip? It made no difference what brought them here, they were guests and she had a job to do.  
  
                She busied herself with carefully cleaning items of the collection, until the man, Joscelin, spoke up.   
  
                "I don't suppose I could have tea instead of wine?"  
  
                Belle jumped at the sudden words. "Of course, just a moment."  
  
                She'd barely returned when he addressed her again." How did he bind you here?"  
  
                The second jump upset the sugar bowl and had her stammering.

                "I-I don't know what you mean. I am not bound. I wear no chains; there are no compulsions on me." That she knew of, at least. Perhaps she should ask about that. "The reason I do not leave isn't because I cannot, but because I will it so." True, technically. She had given her word, and had no intention of breaking it.   
  
                Joscelin smiled, the lines in his face showing hardships, not wisdom. If Belle had to guess, she'd say that beneath the blue-grey garments the man would be a mess of scars. "Prisons aren't all walls and chains. Obligations, honour, blackmail, promises. They can all bind as tight as any _geas_. Phèdre wasn't born to the peerage, you know. Her father was the ill fortuitous son of a merchant prince, her mother a Servant of Naamah. She was sold into indenture at the age of four. She was all they had to sell, and even that got them little enough."  
  
                Belle scurried, eyes down, to pour him tea and worried at her lip for how to respond. "Well, however she came to rise from such humble beginnings-"   
  
                Joscelin barked in laughter. "Oh, humble you say. We are D'Angeline.  You would have to scour the land in order to find a humble man among us. We are proud of our divine heritage, of our country, of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers. It takes a special kind of people to find their courtesans a source of national pride." He smiled, and his eyes shone. "But the man who bought her marque wasn't after another Night Court trained whore. Delaunay took a pair of ten year olds and made of them the best of spies. I was only in his service a short while, but Anafiel Delaunay was a rare man. The Whoremaster of Spies, they called him. Brilliant, and loyal. Our Queen could not have asked for a more devoted servant. If you enjoy reading at all..." Joscelin didn't need to wait for an answer; the expression on Belle's face was enough. "Well I know Phèdre will be back to bargain again, there's no way she'll come to an agreement today." Belle had to interrupt him after that statement.  
  
                "How do you know?" He seemed so sure of it, and yet it didn't seem as though he thought this a waste of time, either.  
  
                "You learn these things when you're the old friend of several who posses the gift of prophecy." Belle would have taken that alone as proof, but Joscelin continued. "And I know Phèdre's ways. She came here to lay the foundation, to make offers and receive them in turn, without reaching any accord. She'll have us back in a week with a counteroffer. Then she'll be sent away while Rumplestiltskin deliberates, and in another fortnight or so he'll call her back for serious negotiations, and I'll fall asleep in my chair before they come to an agreement."  
  
                "You know all that? Just from knowing her?" Amazing, they might be of one mind, with how he described it, so certain of every action his lady would take.  
  
                "Well, that," he said, "and she told me."   
  
                A stunned laugh burst out of her at that moment.  
  
                "But I was saying, we'll be back, and I'll see if I can't get a copy of the Ysandrine Cycle for you to read. Better a poets words than mine."  
  
                "Ah, but you made such a fine Mendacant in those robes." Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève had returned, laughing, but obviously unsatisfied with her negotiations. "And if you give her the Ysandrine Cycle, best get her a copy of the Serenissiman Cycle as well. Don't deprive her of the account of your duel that saved our nation."  
  
                There was so much unsaid that passed between them in that moment and Joscelin smiled over his tea. "You would have her know everything about us?"

                Phèdre frowned at that. "Why not? _He's_ already demanded my entire tale as payment for keeping our request secret. All up to Hyacinthe's freedom. Beyond that he has 'no taste for the life of courtesans and warrior priests', and well enough for it." Whatever this meant, the Comtesse was not pleased with it.   
  
                "That will be a long task in the writing, even if we can use Thelesis' works as a foundation." Joscelin sighed, and stood. "My hand is still fair enough, we'll work together."  
  
                A flush crept onto the Comtesse's face. "Actually, Joscelin, I've already written...Nearly to Daršanga. For my own memoirs, for Imri, and for any future _anguissette_ that may be born."  
  
                It was as if they were speaking in code, and Belle made to excuse herself, when Phèdre caught her arm. "No, don't go. We're not talking as if you have neither ears nor mind, really, no matter how it seems."  
  
                Belle hesitated, not sure how to respond. Sold into indenture at age four, and yet she was now... this? And had he said a spy, and a courtesan. And Joscelin had saved their nation in a duel that had poems written about it? Amazing. It was like something from a novel, meeting a real life pair of heroes.  
  
                "Any way, we'll be back, Belle, wasn't it? We will be back in a week, I know I have several copies of the Ysandrine and Serenissiman cycles about, they will be a gift for you when we return." Phèdre reached out to clasp Belle's hands in promise.   
  
                "Will they dearie? I should have known; I take a single woman to my staff and next thing that happens I've a Servant of Naamah plying her gods-touched charms to seduce her away."  
  
                At least _this_ voice didn't make her jump, but her eyes did widen at how Rumplestiltskin had wrenched the Comtesse's arm away, so harsh that the woman had been pulled halfway across the room in one tug. Without any visible movement from Joscelin, the daggers were loose from their sheathes with a faint ringing, such was the conditioned response of one who would _Protect and Serve_.  
  


                Belle was utterly terrified, her heartbeat loud in her ears. If Joscelin attacked... If Rumplestiltskin killed Phèdre... Right here, in front of her. He'd make a show of it too, play on their bond. Oh, she'd be seeing the blood in her nightmares till the day she died.   
  
                But even being forced to kneel, the Comtesse de Montrève didn't look afraid. Certainly that angle must have her arm in agony, and though her head was being dragged back by her hair, the sound that emerged from her throat was one not of pain, but pleasure.   
  
                Belle wasn't sure what to think, her jaw falling open, but Joscelin just sheathed his blades and sighed, a look of long suffering tolerance on his face.   
  
Rumplestiltskin giggled, his intent in the action obvious now to all. " _Anguisettes_ , really. Whoever did come up with the idea? It's such a delicious cruelty, transmuting pain to pleasure. Ooh, maybe I could bottle that." He cast the lady to the ground carelessly, no harm intended, just moving on with his idea. "You can go now, D'Angelines."  
  
                Phèdre knelt on the floor for a while, head bowed, before rising and taking her consort's arm. She saw them out, a million questions on her tongue, but remained silent. This was no time for her to be asking them anything.  
  
                Rumplestiltskin told her she wasn't needed for the rest of the day, he'd be working, and not to allow any further guests.   
  
                Oh, she wanted to know more about this _anguissette_ , this former bond-servant become a peer in her own right, taking a consort, not marrying... Their next visit couldn't come soon enough.

 

                Belle wasn't the only one anxious for the next visit. Back at the inn they were staying at, Phèdre was almost smiling in a way that had Joscelin shaking his head. "You're up to something. What are you planning?"

                "I'm thinking maybe the precept of Blessed Elua wouldn't be amiss in that castle."

                Joscelin's jaw dropped, and he stood for several moments, staring at her face as if trying to discern the joke. "Only you would find someone like the first Master of Straits and decide to play matchmaker."

                "It's just a thought."

                "Phèdre, you know that it can't happen. Hyacinthe saw that the girl would only be with him for a short time." Joscelin reached out to stroke her face. "What did he ask for?"

                "Hair, from Ysandre and Drustan, if you can believe it." Phèdre shook her head. "He knows I can't do that, not with what Imri is dealing with right now as an example."

                That was true. Who knew what kind of control could be exerted over the Queen of Terre d'Ange and the Cruarch of Alba via those hairs? Even on a mission such as this, there was no way that Phèdre would ever risk the lives of her sovereigns, and close friends. The worst thought was that, given the mission, Ysandre might well consider it. Proud, brave, and noble, Ysandre de la Courcel would certainly give her life for her country, if it were asked for. Drustan might be more likely to refuse outright, the Albans had a much deeper knowledge of the risks of magic than D'Angelines did.

                But there was nothing in the world that would convince Phèdre to ask them to take that risk, and it was time to come up with a counteroffer. Offering her services was always an option, as little as Joscelin liked it. Money wasn't even considered, that would be an insult.

                "It has to be something valuable, something unique and precious."Phèdre chewed on her lip, lost in thought. "Maybe some of the flowers they distil _joie_ from? Along with some of the drink itself, of course."

                Joscelin thought on that himself. "He'll deny your counteroffer no matter what it is, you just have to make sure it's not going to insult him so much he refuses to negotiate. It should be enough."

                "Good, now we've finished that business." Her hands splayed on his chest, Phèdre favoured her consort with a sly grin. "Let us to bed."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit of this chapter is a paraphrase of Earth Begotten, a piece by Jacqueline Carey that is on her official site. Believe me, if I'd had to come up with my own words for the story, Rumple wouldn't have had enough time to fall into a trance, it'd be so short.
> 
> Also, the end of the chapter got a little weird. I blame it on the bear witches.

 

                The week of waiting for Phèdre and Joscelin to return was agonising for Belle. The promise of the stories was only making things worse, and her distraction was showing. She'd been spilling tea, dropping dusters, and twice had to retrace her steps in order to remember what task she had been set to.

                Rumplestiltskin wasn't too pleased with it, but only made a handful of biting comments about her. "You know, even if there isn't a lot to clean typically, you don't need to make work to justify your place here. I'm not in the habit of letting people go, after all."

                All the apologies in the world weren't going to help, she was far too curious for her own good, and finally broke down and asked him.

                "What did the D'Angelines want with you?"

                Infuriatingly, he wouldn't give an answer to that. "I can't tell you that, dearie. Would be breaking my promise, and that's just something I don't do. You wouldn't want me to go back on _our_ little deal would you?"

                "There has to be _something_ you can tell me."

                "Perhaps," he said, with that impish grin that so often came over him. "But what is it worth, I wonder?"

                Belle pretended to ponder that for all of a minute. "My not camping out on top of the table and staring despondently at you throughout your meals might be a start."

                Rumplestiltskin laughed that high tittering giggle that was so infectious, if one wasn't scared out of one's wits. "Is that a threat, dearie? I might be tempted to call your bluff."

                "Do it." She dared, hands on her hips. "I've got nothing better to do, and it wouldn't hurt you to have a little conversation with someone who isn't terrified of you for once."

                "Just because you've got no common sense," he began irritably.

                "Why _should_ I be terrified of you? All that accomplishes is making this whole dusty castle even more foreboding and gloomy. If I'm going to be here forever, and I am, I may as well make the most of it." As he opened his mouth to snap back, she cut him off. "After all, what kind of caretaker would I be if I wasn't able to walk about the estate with my head held high? You haven't any other servants for me to intimidate, so by default I have to be insubordinate to _you_ whenever possible. How else do I assert my position?"

                Rumplestiltskin threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat, but grinned all the same. Almost as if he'd never planned on withholding the information to begin with, the bastard. "If you want to understand D'Angeline's, you'll first have to understand how they came to be, and how they got that divine blood that makes them so pretty it nearly hurts to look at them."

                Belle's eyebrows raised, he was commenting on their appearance? That hardly meshed with what she thought she knew of him.

                "Not a figure of speech, dearie, they are a people with the blood of angels. Now, if you'll spare me the looks, I'll spin you the tale of the Earth Begotten Elua, as I heard it."

                Belle made a show of sitting herself at his feet like an obedient child, skirts pooled around her, and earned a _look_ that promised she'd pay for her smart-ass attitude very soon.

                "When the true gotten son of the One God, Yeshua ben Yoseph was dying upon a wooden cross, a Tiberian spear pierced his side, spilling blood on the ground. The Magdalene, who loved him, wept tears that mixed with the blood, for their union had never been sealed, and she was bereft of both her saviour and her love. The Earth herself took pity on this, and within that damp soil was formed a spark of divine life, and thus was blessed Elua born, from a womb of Earth, the blood of a messiah, and the tears of his mortal beloved.

                "But such a birth brings disgust and revulsion, and Tiberian and Yeshuite alike cast him out, and where he wandered, flowers bloomed at his feet. But where he passed, people feared him, and the One God mourned only for his true gotten son.

                "In Persis, the king had him cast in chains. And while the One God would not be moved from his grief, there were those among the angels who took pity on blessed Elua, and joined him.

                "The first of those was Naamah, who gave herself to the king of Persis for a night, so that Elua might be freed. Also joining him were the clever Shemhazai, gentle Eisheth the healer,   Anael the good steward, proud Azza and martial Camael, and Kushiel , who was the punisher of God, who loved his charges too well. And last though never least, Cassiel, who came in compassion, that duty even the One God had forgotten.




                "Though Elua and his companions wandered far, he could not find a place that would accept him. In Bhodistan, Naamah lay with strangers in the street for coin, so that Elua might eat. Though the people there saw his inner light, they would not turn away from their multitude of gods, and so the journey continued. Through deserts and mountains, North to the Skaldic lands of freezing winters, where the tribes shrieked to their gods of blood and iron and shook their war-axes at him.

                "So onwards did blessed Elua wander until he came to a land yet unnamed, where lavender bloomed, and olives grew, and where the people welcomed him. This place he made his own, and they his people, whom he loved well. The land where Elua and his companions came to stay was then called Terre d'Ange, after them.

                "Elua and his companions lived with and loved the people of Terre d'Ange, and many sons and daughters were born to them, save Cassiel, who clung to the One God's commandment. And when the companions parcelled out the land, Cassiel claimed no providence of his own, but ever followed Elua, who he loved as a brother. Elua claimed no land, but a city grew up around the banks of a great river, the place he loved best.

                "The companions had brought with them great secrets from heaven, and bestowed them on their children, so that the people of Terre d'Ange became wise in many arts.

                "But the One God had overcome his grief at last, and saw the people of Terre d'Ange and blessed Elua. Fearful that they would overrun the earth, He sent the captain of his host to bring Elua before His throne. Elua only smiled, gave the captain of the host the kiss of peace, and lay wreaths of flowers about his neck, and he returned to the One God empty handed.

                "The One God then knew that He held no dominion over Elua, who was begotten in Earth's womb and did not answer to Heaven; yet he was mortal, and subject to mortality. The One God pondered long, and sent his arch-herald with an offer of forgiveness, did blessed Elua summon his Companions and leave the soil of mortal earth and go in peace to take his place at the right hand of Heaven.

                "Blessed Elua smiled upon the arch-herald, and turned to his boon companion Cassiel, asking the loan of his dagger. Taking it, he scored the palm of his hand. Bright blood welled in his palm and fell in fat drops to the earth, and anemones bloomed. "My grandfather's Heaven is bloodless," Elua told the arch-herald, "And I am not. Let him offer a better place, where we may love and sing and grow as we are wont, where our children and our children's children may join us, and I will go." The arch-herald paused, awaiting the One God's response. "There is no such place," he replied.

                "And for the first time in many thousands of years did Earth speak to Her once-husband, and say, "It may be done. Let us create it together, You and I." This was done, and such a thing has not happened since.

                "Generation upon generation, the blood of Elua and his Companions runs still in the veins of their descendants, each of whom will one day follow to the land that lies beyond. And though centuries pass, they do not forget, and keep always sacred the precept of blessed Elua, that is, "Love as thou wilt." Thus is Terre d'Ange, thus D'Angelines." Rumplestiltskin had fallen into a sort of trance as he relayed the words, wheel spinning slowly, hypnotic in its rhythm.

                Belle had grown misty eyed at the beauty of it, and if the idea of a single Creator wasn't what she had been raised to believe, the idea that even the gods had one above them wasn't unknown. Besides, Terre d'Ange was obviously in a different world. "You, you make quite the storyteller, Rumplestiltskin."

                This broke them both from the spell the tale had cast over them, and he glanced at her sharply. "Not at all, I merely paraphrased a work I read on the subject, might have even gotten a few details wrong at the beginning, but the ending was right enough." A shrug accompanied his words.

                Belle thought that he was rather undervaluing his abilities, but the story had given her a lot to take in, and she returned to her duties with a great deal more grace, mind still not on her tasks, but at least no longer so distracted she would knock into things.

                It lasted all of two days, before she again had to ask. "All right, so I understand the divine blood, and the pride and the supernatural beauty, but what is it that makes a... what was it you said the Comtesse was? A Servant of Naamah? Does it have something to do with the tattoo on her back?"

                Rumplestiltskin choked on his tea. Oh, _this_ was not the conversation he wanted to be having with his lovely caretaker, not one bit. This was not a conversation he wanted to be having with _anyone_ , ever.

                "Ah, now,  that's a question for the Comtesse dearie, you don't want to hear it from me."

 

                "Phèdre you can't give the girl that!" Joscelin flushed so prettily at the sight of the book that Phèdre had picked out, she just had to keep pulling other books out.

                "Well, if not the _Ecstasia_ , then perhaps the _Trois Milles Joies_?" She teased, opening to a random page in the book, and smiling that 'I have the Name of God locked in my thoughts' smile that he'd grown to know so well. She curled up in the chair beside the window, this inn provided much in their best rooms, the full Ysandrine cycle already on the table with the other offerings she'd be bringing to the Dark Castle in two days time.

                "Name of Elua, why are you so set on getting that girl into the monster's bed? It might make him less grumpy, but it's hardly fair to her." Joscelin massaged his temples, trying to work out what possible advantage there would be in this. Not for the first time, he wished he had more knowledge of the sort Anafiel Delaunay possessed, or even, Elua help him, the skill for seeing fault lines in souls that Melisande possessed. Something to help navigate the labyrinth of negotiations, more than just guarding Phèdre and being her sounding board. These were dangerous waters they tread, having crossed worlds on this quest.

                " _Love as thou wilt_ , Joscelin. He's already half in love with her, you saw that as well as I did. She's not the kind of person who would be fooled by that evil power, she sees the man within. She hasn't decided if the man is someone she loves, but the idea is at the back of her mind, and she will keep probing at it like a sore tooth."

                "And it will end in tears, Phèdre. We know this. Her fate diverges from his very soon. Why would you make them both suffer?"

                "Is it worse to suffer a love lost, than to forever wonder if one could have had love, but was too much a coward to embrace it?"

                Joscelin takes her into his arms then, brushing away the tears that had slipped unnoticed from her eyes. "You're thinking about Imri, aren't you?"

                "Joscelin, what are we supposed to do? We let him make this choice, he's all grown now. But it still feels like I've lost my son."

                Joscelin silences her with a kiss that is returned with a desperate fury, and before long she's unbound his hair, hands sliding under his shirt, gown dropped to the floor, and they're both crying now. Time has passed in their lives, and what idyllic peace they had when Imri was growing is once again lost, this time to marriages of state and foreign magics. They've crossed the Skaldic wilderness in the deepest winter, survived storms and pirates and assaulted prison walls to get back to one another. They lived through Daršanga, brought light back to a world ruled by death and darkness. She's spoken the Name of God on the waves, ended an ages old curse cast by a bitter angel. They have made love like this, her arms wrapped around his neck, legs locked behind his back, their hair twining together on the pillows, dark and light. They've wounded each other thousands of times, and made apologies with worship of the flesh countless more. He has stood at the crossroads and chosen, again and again, the path of the companion. They have saved nations together, brought the force to end a war, prevented an assassination. The world calls them heroes.

                But they are parents too, even if Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel was never the child of their flesh, he is the child of their hearts. Grown, married, not for love but for duty. In Alba, a land he has no ties to, his desires bound up in strange magic. They know he wrestles with the burden, with Blessed Elua's precept. But there is nothing more that they can do. He has to live his life, they can no longer protect him.

                So here they are, hiding away the pages of the Sefer Raziel, playing matchmaker to a sorcerer and his housekeeper, trying to bring that sense of purpose back to their lives. Trying not to think on things they cannot change, things that balls and fetes won't brush away. Just two people,  forever playthings of the gods.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The second time the D'Angelines arrived, Phèdre didn't even wait to be announced, just dropped her cloak on the table and saw herself up to the tower.

Belle was bewildered, but Joscelin followed with several books and an uneasy smile.

"Believe me,  Belle, I was against giving you half these books. But if we didn't, well, she would decide to teach you everything in them personally."

Still not understanding, she picked up the first book on the stack. "The Trois Milles Joies? What is- OH! Is that?" Her face heated at the image and Joscelin tried to hide his smile.

"You can't blame me, Phèdre had an idea in her head, and I couldn't stop her. You see, thank you," He accepted the steaming mug of tea and a seat by the fire.

"I'd offer you lemon, but I don't think we have any." She wanted to try and forget the image in the book, and the feelings it stirred up.

"No need to worry. But about Phèdre and those books. You see, because of her gift, Phèdre sees love in cruelty. She has this half-mad idea that your _entirely_ mad master is in love with you, and just needs a push to admit it."

"Half-mad is right. Rumplestiltskin, in love with me? Why, one of the first things he said was that he wasn't looking for love." She wasn't sure, but she thought for a moment when he called Rumplestiltskin mad, she felt the urge to defend him. Rational thought, of course, prevailed.

"I wasn't either, when I fell for Phèdre." Softly reminiscing, Joscelin pulled open his shirt to show his many scars, one particular one on his left side a ragged mess. It worked its way up his ribs, a curving gash, years old. He gestured to it.  "She's absolutely rubbish at sewing, you know. But she stitched me up, when we were fleeing across Skaldia. Everything changed that night."

"Tell me about it?" Belle asked, reaching out to touch the scars. He was a mess of them, and she wondered what the story was behind them.

"It's a long story, Belle. Phèdre's telling it to the bastard upstairs, ask him for the books to read, I know he's recording every word."

"I don't want to read it second hand, tell me how you fell in love."

\---

"I don't see why you can't just use my notes. Why you have to use magic?"

Rumplestiltskin all but growled. "Because your notes are in bloody D'Angeline, aren't they. Now sit still and let the book write itself. Start with your being sold, the magic likes that as the beginning.  Hands on the parchment. See it in your mind, that moment in the Dowayne's courtyard, as your own mother sold you."

"She had no choice, and I'm better for it. If she hadn't, I'd have never learned..."

"Oh, so all's well that ends well, isn't it? She still sold you. Stop talking so the magic can work."

Phèdre held her hand to the open and empty book and cleared her mind, and the words began to appear on the page.

_Lest anyone should suppose that I am a cuckoo's child, got on the wrong side of the blanket by lusty peasant stock and sold into indenture in a shortfallen season, I may say that I am House-born and reared in the Night Court proper, for all the good it did me._

After about an hour, he spoke again. "You make a great narrator, Comtesse. Shame about the copious amounts of suffering. But that's life! Pain pain pain, hate hate hate, and then, we die!" He laughed, and Phèdre ground her teeth.

"All right, thank you. Can the bargaining resume?"

"No need to bargain, _anguissette_ , no, I've figured what I want. Your lovely flower wine isn't quite what I need."

"Name it, I don't bluff well." It was never in her to resist, her power lay in submitting. Not that it meant anything, as one Melisande had learned to her regret, that which yields, is not always weak.

"No, you don't. All right, I have desire for my own _anguissette_ , or rather, the makings of one." He paced back and forth. Phèdre's face drained of its colour. Rumplestiltskin laughed, watching her face. "Oh no dearie, I don't want you. Just your gift. I think I can distil the essence."

Phèdre's heart began to race, and she reached for the fastenings of her gown.

"Oh, not yet, Comtesse. I need to get the potion ready, just you keep your hand on that book. Ah, hold on, need to swap to a second volume, that one's nearly a thousand pages, I could use it as a door stop." One leather-bound book was replaced with a second, and the words began again

_No one would deny that I have known hardship in my time, brief though it has been for all that I have done in it. This, I think, I may say without boastfulness. If I answer now to the title of Comtesse de Montrève and my name is listed in the peerage of Terre d'Ange, still I have known what it is to have all that I possess torn from me; once, when I was but four years of age and my birth-mother sold me into servitude to the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, and twice, when my lord and mentor Anafiel Delaunay was slain, and Melisande Shahrizai betrayed me into the hands of the Skaldi._

"Now, I doubt your blood will be of any use, that would be too easy." The pacing resumed.  "No, the blood won't do. Tears, tears will be it. From that gods-marked eye of yours. I'll need two kinds. The first are easy. Hand ON THE BOOK Comtesse, I'm not going to collect from you tonight. We'll finish with your story, then you can come back in a week so I can complete the deal."

"That deal being?"

"Essence of _anguissette_ , bottled and tested. It may not be true love, but since you won't give me the hairs of two royal lovers who fought the odds, whose love united kingdoms, broke a curse, survived hellish trials, well, maybe pleasure from pain is the next best thing, hmm?"

"I wouldn't know."

 

"No, I guess you wouldn't. Well, continue, I'll just work around you."

Phèdre watched him work, burners and bottles and all sorts of objects bubbling and changing, items chopped, burned, and dissolved in acid. It was fascinating, and she tried to identify the different supplies. Beetles, horns, hairs, ground up stones and herbs. She watched the colours of the flame, the drip of the distilled essence. She took into account the way the light fell in the room, anything to distract from the endless flow of words as her memories spilled themselves on the page.

It was another hour before she was stopped once more, and a new book replaced the old.

_IT ENDED with a dream._

_Ten years of peace, the ancient Oracle of Asherat-of-the-Sea promised me; ten years I had, and in that time, my fortune prospered along with that of Terre d’Ange, my beloved nation. So often, a time of great happiness is recognized only in hindsight. I reckoned it a blessing that the Oracle’s promise served also as warning, and let no day pass without acknowledging its grace. Youth and beauty I had yet on my side, the latter deepening as the years tempered the former. Thus had my old mentor, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin, foretold, and if I had counted her words lightly in the rasher youth of my twenties, I knew it for truth as I left them behind._

It was an odd sort of dance that Rumplestiltskin engaged in up in his tower, the way he slipped from task to task, hands always moving, gesturing, rolling threads and coins between his fingers, testing bits of potion with a careful flame, pulling out jewellery and muttering over it until it shone with unearthly light. Most often, the efforts on rings or chains of gold gained only a look of disgust, and they went into a standing cauldron that smelled of vinegar.

Less time, now, before the tale she told sputtered to the finale, the moment when she spoke the Name of God on the waves, and the angel Rahab was forced to give up his curse.

_It was done._

_Without a sound, Rahab’s head bowed, like night’s last star vanish­ing in the dawn. Sorrow, and defeat. One arm rose, sweeping, a plumed wing of water and sea-foam, trailing adamant shackles, passing before his face. Bittersweet, this ending. Even the anger of a spurned heart had held mercy in it. The curse that had divided Terre d’Ange and Alba before Hyacinthe’s sacrifice, that had bound him afterward, had held us safe, had protected our shores. Where the One God had abandoned His misbegotten grandchildren, Rahab, in all the anguish of his immortal heart, had not._

_Now it was ended._

"Enough. I need time to read these volumes through, return to your lover."

"If you will to yours." Phèdre was bold to speak these words aloud to one such as he, but she had just relived that moment when she freed Hyacinthe and herself from the confines of an angel's curse. She had seen the terrible cost of power take its toll on her friend, and seen too how the mantle of power remained, even once that curse was rescinded. The Name of God had freed the Master of Straits; and hadn't the Yeshuite scholar Eleazar told her that beneath every syllable of the Name was a root word, the foundation on which the Name was built? Love. Maybe Love could free this powerful man as well. Such was the D'Angeline way of thinking.

"The only other soul living here is my housekeeper, I do not have a lover. Creatures like myself do not inspire such feelings in others. I'll forgive your mistake this one time, Comtesse. Do not make it again."

Phèdre merely smiled knowingly, and descended to rejoin Joscelin and Belle.

\---

"I had made an oath, to guard Phèdre with my life. After what we had faced, it only made sense to keep it."

Belle's eyes were wide, her hands coming up to cover her shocked little gasp. "You were cast out from your Order for that?"

"It was a small price to pay, to forever bind my fate to hers. Elua had already bound our hearts. I wouldn't let even the Brotherhood take that from us. Cassiel betrayed the One God out of his love for Blessed Elua. I would keep Cassiel's oath in my heart this way."

Belle sighed, Joscelin's tale making her feel girlish and romantic, and she'd forgotten the books and the idea that had prompted her to beg him for the story. Phèdre returning, however, promised to remind her.

"Everything go all right with your negotiations, Phèdre?"

The Comtesse nodded. "He's really not as frightening as he tries to be. He reminds me more of Hyacinthe every time I see him. The heavy way the power sits on him, wisdom of the ages. That terrible power, how it transformed him. Do you remember his face, Joscelin? How scared he was that even if I broke Rahab's curse, he wouldn't remember how to be human?"

Joscelin nodded, knowing what Phèdre was remembering, and seeing in her eyes that it wasn't just optimism that had her seeing traces of the same fate as their Tsinigano friend in the Dark One who they were bargaining with today. "Would that the Name of God would help us here, I would be glad to see you speak it again."

"It won't do any good here, the poor man. Man and more than a man, just like Hyas. I'm not the one who can chase that darkness from him." She shook her head and touched her cheek, not surprised at the tear that had escaped. "But let us speak of happier things. Belle, how did you like my gifts?"

Joscelin groaned at that, and Belle turned scarlet. "She's not D'Angeline, Phèdre, you've scandalised the girl with your texts of lovemaking. Elua knows they scandalise _me_ and I've lived with you twenty years and more."

Belle was stammering slightly. "I'm sure it is common for D'Angeline's, but my people are rather quieter about the matters of the marriage bed."

"If we limited these acts to a marriage bed, we would be denying ourselves so much pleasure." Phèdre was happy to open one of the books and trail her finger down the pages to find a certain line of reference. "There are plenty you can try for yourself, though I'd advise you to do so when you have time to complete the process. If not, you might find working for a man who favours leather trousers to be a trial."

Belle had no idea how to respond to that. As much as she had read to educate herself, no one had ever spoken of such things in such, such knowing and open terms.

"Phèdre, enough, please. You're teasing her just like the Eglantine tumblers teased me. If she wants to learn, you gave her the books. Now, please, before her master decides you're trying to seduce her, can we leave?" Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow, and led Phèdre out the door, leaving Belle breathless and open mouthed.

 

"Stay there too long and a bird might make a nest."

The voice at her ear made Belle snap her mouth shut and turn to murmur an apology.

"Whatever did the _anguissette_ do to leave you in such a state dearie? Should I go take it out of her hide?" The twittering giggle. "She'd thank me for it, strange creature that she is. Maybe I ought to. Be a novelty, to be thanked." He prowled the room until he came to the pile of books on the table.

"She brought you books? Well, I can't say I'm not surprised, the Comtesse is a scholar-" He reached to pick one up.

"No, don't!" Belle had found her voice too late, it seemed, because Rumplestiltskin had already opened one of the offending volumes.

He dropped the book as if it scalded him, and neither spoke for a long moment. "I see." He said, though what he saw wasn't made clear, because he had already turned on his heel and stalked off, and Belle very decidedly _did not watch_ him do so. Certainly not with any eye towards leather, or any such ideas.

That would be silly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING WARNING WARNING.  
> Things have, against the authors will, turned GRAPHICALLY VIOLENT and characters WILL be abused. This is a general trigger warning for abuse and slut shaming, cold blooded torture, and mention of any of the many abuses Phedre has suffered.
> 
> I am giving you fair warning that I made myself feel pretty sick writing this, and if you turn back now, I do not blame you. Hell, if you never read anything else I write ever again, I don't blame you.

The next time Phèdre and Joscelin arrived, it was with a trunk of their belongings and no small amount of arguing in their own tongue as they entered. The way Joscelin kept touching his daggers and checking his vambraces, he looked ready to spill blood at the slightest provocation.

"The D'Angelines will be staying with us for a while, air out the third floor of the east wing, Belle." Rumplestiltskin told her before vanishing up to his workroom.  
  
Belle, feeling rebellious, whispered "He always forgets the magic word."  
  
Phèdre laughed, and Joscelin smiled, but Rumplestiltskin's voice carried down. "I heard that, you know. Now will the _anguissette_ kindly get her tattooed backside up to my tower, I have a deal to complete."  
  
Dreading this, Phèdre complied, putting on a strong face both for Joscelin, who wouldn't be deceived, and for Belle, who didn't know any better than to believe it.

  
When she entered the room, the door at the base of the final set of stairs slammed shut behind her, heavy bolts sliding into place.   
  
It was bitter cold in the tower, cold as the Skaldic winter. She shivered as she approached.  
  
"You read my letter, Phèdre nó Delaunay?" The Dark One's voice was tight, unhappy. He no more liked the path this bargain had taken than she did.  
  
Lump in her throat, she nodded. She daren't speak, not with his terms fixed in her mind. The deal was only fair. Magic needed to balance magic.  
  
"And you agree to the terms?" Again the nod.  
  
"Good, then let's begin."  
  
His first act was to blast her with freezing wind that tore her clothing to tatters, burned her skin with the cold. He hadn't even moved from his chair. A flick of a finger brought fine golden thread to bind her arms above her head, tight and unyielding, but not tight enough that her hands might go numb. Numb was the last thing he wanted. The threads looped over a hook suspended from the ceiling, lifting Phèdre so she must balance on the tip of her toes, or would be forced to hang, all her weight pulling on her shoulders.  
  
It was hardly any different from a normal job, magic and golden thread aside. At least, thus far it wasn't.  
  
The careless gesture of a hand brought out a variety of floggers and blades, such as she was used to. Rumplestiltskin took a long time selecting a flogger, and even longer circling her suspended body.  
  
"I take no pleasure in this, you know. No matter what you do, Naamah's servant, you cannot please me. For me, this is only an act that causes pain. But I can please you, just by letting." The first strike fell on a breast. "My temper." A second across the stomach. "Have reign." Third running the length of her marque, a burning kiss of leather down her spine. Phèdre writhed, watching, hanging suspended with nothing to seek her pleasure against.  
  
The blows fell one after another in no rhythm she could determine; sometimes it seemed one lash bled right into the next, others she waited for a silent eternity, when would he strike again. There was no pattern, no artistry, he struck her in places that would inflame the passions of any as often as he drew on her gift so that only an _anguissette_ would moan in desire from the blows. The heat of her arousal was sharp in the cold air, breasts thrust outward, legs trembling to hold herself up.  
  
Losing herself in a patron's anger was easy, or would be if not for the knowledge that he sought her _signale_ , the word that meant an end to her pleasures, and would not heed it. She had agreed to go beyond her ability to find pleasure, to allow him to bring her to a pain her gift could not transmute.   
  
The touch of the lash on her skin vanished, and she whimpered with want. He didn't speak anymore, didn't have to, as he circled her with a look of disgust. His face told her, you should be ashamed of yourself. What treasure in all the worlds is worth defiling your one most sacred law?   
  
Clamps were applied to her nipples and nether lips, and more golden thread tied them. He rolled the thread that connected to the clamp on her left nipple, and the device began to heat up to an unbearable degree. Phèdre was certain she would smell her own sizzling flesh in a moment, but cried out only in pleasure. Rumplestiltskin spit at her feet, looking at her like something found at the bottom of a pond. Shame was something Phèdre was used to, and though her skin reddened, eyes lowered and tears streaming, she was still slick with desire, still held by her unique talent. The pain was still pleasure.  
  
Not yet, he hadn't gotten far enough. The heat receded, only to return in all the clamps, just hot enough to leave minor burns, but on such sensitive flesh. She stretched up on her toes as high as she could, feeling the strain on her calves.  
  
His disgust was like a fog in the air, and Phèdre fought against the red haze on her vision in order to speak. "You meant it. I thought you were lying, but you really take no pleasure in this."  
  
Rumplestiltskin growled and slapped her across the face for speaking out of turn. "Of course I don't you cursed whore. Monster I may be, but I find nothing arousing about abusing a woman. No matter how much she enjoys it. What sick god thinks this is acceptable? What soulless being can fuck a woman as she hangs, burned and bleeding and strung up like meat?"  
  
"Most men would at least respond to my pleasure."  
  
"I'm not a man. But even if I were, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of even the slightest desire in the face of this degradation." Another open handed slap across her face, and she tasted blood. Between that, the clamps, and the flogger, Phèdre was desperate for fulfilment, and thrust her hips toward him, begging for a touch. Something to give her what she needed. She pleaded, wracking her mind to draw on all her studies, anything to get him to give her release. Praising, threatening, gasping worshipful desires to just let her please him, if only she could have a single touch.  
  
"You can't seduce me, dearie. All you arts mean nothing to me."  
  
Mind spiralling from the edge of her pleasure, Phèdre still was able to observe and draw conclusions. All her time in Rumplestiltskin's presence had only confirmed her suspicions, and now she knew the key to his emotions. The lever by which the unmovable could be moved.  
  
"Because you love Belle." Phèdre knew how to work her clients, perhaps too well. She could see how Elua's precept would be impossible for him to obey openly. He could never allow himself to love, because he thought himself unworthy of it. Something snapped, and the threads binding her tightened, another snaking up to her throat to choke. A whirlwind of magic, and there were needles of gold driving under her fingernails, toenails, forcing themselves under the skin at her thighs and writhing like a parasite, sparks of tiny lightning shooting through her. She screamed as climax took her, again and again, and the bronze face of Kushiel swam before her. She was right. He loved the girl, and because she saw it, she would suffer. No one could be allowed to know he had a heart. Against her will, she smiled at the knowledge.  
  
Still, it was not enough. She was consumed by pleasure, and that was not what was agreed upon. Even as she sagged at her bonds, unable to voice a single thought, he drew a knife. Phèdre screamed again, not in pleasure but in fear.   
  
It was Selig's knife. The very image of the knife that the Skaldi warlord used when he began to skin her alive. Terror, sheer primal terror, gripped her. She was not afraid to die, was not afraid of pain. She was, however, afraid of this. One of the few moments in her life when even Kushiel's Dart could not overcome the pain, was when Waldemar Selig skinned her like a rabbit. He had barely begun before Joscelin saved her, and here, now, there was nothing that could stop the act. The door was barred beyond a Cassiline's strength to break. There was no army watching, no hope for a swift end from an arrow or a thrown dagger. She had no cliff to leap from, and the Name of God would not release her. He could skin her entirely, and use his magic to keep her alive throughout. This was not sex, even in Daršanga there had been lust, but not here. Naamah held no sway in this place; even mighty Kushiel brought no comfort for his chosen, not in the face of this.  
  
"No! No, stop! Don't! No! Hyacinthe! Hyacinthe! Please stop, I've given the _signale_ , please! Hyacinthe Hyacinthe Hyacinthe!"  
  
He had already begun to cut, and slowly peel the skin from her back. Held immobile by his hands and threads, clamps having fallen away when the knife came out, Phèdre could do nothing but sob. His nails dug into the flesh at her shoulder, grip tightening in anger every time her struggles brought her body flush against his.  
  
"Elua help me! Naamah save me!" Her vision grew dark, and images of everyone who had meant anything flashed before her eyes, swifter than they had the first time, when she was certain she would die. "Joscelin! Joscelin, he's skinning me!" Faces, Ysandre, Drustan, Delaunay, sweet Alcuin, beloved Joscelin, Imri, her dear heart and most precious gift, Melisande ah the woman herself, Hyacinthe, Rahab with the painful beauty only an angel could posses. "I can't bear this, Lord Kushiel save your servant! Grant me mercy!" The Mahrkagir with the ivory hairpin stabbed into his chest, his horrible bone priests, Selig, her sweet chevaliers, Remy, Fortun, dead because of her. Every soul she had ever touched, even the hazy images of her mother and father, no end to her memory, as each second of agony continued. It threatened to destroy her very being, her sense of self. She clung to one idea, just one hope in her tattered mind. Love. "JOSCELIN! Elua damn you, Joscelin where are you? You have to protect and serve! Protect and serve Cassiline! If you love me at all, Joscelin!" She railed and screamed, and her pain and fear echoed through the castle, even as Rumplestiltskin shook with fear and disgust at himself. He pulled again at the strip of flesh, and Phèdre screamed so it rattled glass. Nearly there, he knew. She was slipping in and out of consciousness with every moment, the pain too much for either state, she might well expire of it if kept too long in this hazy twilight. He had fetched from a trunk a large vial, and a pouch of powder. Holding the vial beneath her dart stricken eye, he dumped the powder, fine sea salt, into the wound. It was enough.  
  
To his sight, the tears that fell were red, not with blood, but purest pain. The _anguissette_ screamed for her love, for her gods, for her safe-word-friend, and finally screamed herself hoarse, so her throat bled with her other wounds. Sealing the now full vial, he stored it carefully away in a velvet lined box.  
  
The door at the base of the tower was shuddering under the assault of her Cassiline, who was vowing to take the life of anyone who got in his way.  
  
A large, soft, mattress appeared beneath Phèdre, and her bonds released her to slowly sink into it.  
  
All the golden threads and needles had vanished, though she bled from the tiny wounds where they burrowed into her flesh.  
  
As wounds went, she had suffered worse many times, but as pain, Phèdre would give up her gift rather than face the like ever again. Her heartbeat was erratic, and her lungs burned. She couldn't see, she couldn't hear anything but her blood pounding in her ears, and thought was beyond her.  
  
The cold vanished, and Phèdre was covered with a clean cotton sheet, hunched in on herself and sobbing. Rumplestiltskin gestured at the door and the bolts and locks opened, so the next charge brought Joscelin tumbling in, sword drawn, eyes maddened with panic and rage.  
  
Rumplestiltskin paid no heed to the Cassiline's charge, halting the sword that would have taken his head off with a single rude gesture. As Joscelin fought his frozen muscles, Rumplestiltskin concentrated on threading a needle with finest silk thread, and deftly stitching back the strip of flesh he had pulled from the Comtesse's back. Only an inch wide, and he had gone so slow that it was only three inches of skin that hung loose. Phèdre passed into unconsciousness early on, and Joscelin fell to his knees beside her, trembling as he clutched at her hand. When the stitching was done, the wound was slathered with a strongly scented salve and bandaged, Joscelin watching like a hawk, whispering prayers and tearful apologies.   
  
"Never again. Never ever again. Elua grant it, I will never leave your side, only live. Nothing is worth losing you, the Tsinigano would kill me if he knew. If I let you die, I would beg him to do it. Phèdre come back to me."  
  
Unseen by her master, Belle clung to the doorway at the foot of the stairs, her face bloodless, having emptied her stomach while Joscelin battered himself against the door. What had she sold herself to? Unable to stand, she crumpled to the ground, and heard something that few would ever hear.  
  
"She's all right, Cassiline." Rumplestiltskin said, low, voice choked with tears. "Your love is fine. I promise. She will know you tried to save her, you didn't fail in your duty. I swear, on my blackened soul, the monster isn't as strong as she is. There, see? She wakes."  
  
Belle bit hard on her knuckle to keep silent as Phèdre woke, hearing Joscelin's sobs subside.  
  
"Joscelin? Did he kill you too?"  
  
"No, love. We both yet live. You survived another hell. My heart cannot take much more of this."  
  
"Joscelin..."  
  
Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat and both D'Angelines made a panicked sound. "Allow me to transport you to your quarters. You will find a poppy draught, as well as a selection of dressings and salves to soothe your wounds. No magic, just artistry. I keep my bargains, you will be healed from this, as if it never were. You will leave without so much as a scratch. You will have what you asked..."  
  
The voices faded, and Belle let out her breath, he must have magicked them to the rooms.  
  
She tried to stand, but her legs were like water, so she sat and waited to recover. The screams she had heard had terrified her, stricken her very soul, and when, minutes or hours later, she heard muffled sobs, she was stunned to find they weren't her own.  
  
"Horrid evil bastard! I didn't want to be like _you_! I just wanted to _save everyone_." The words were whispered, choked, and broke Belle's heart at the hopelessness of them. "Magic. Like killing the fly on your arm by jumping into a fire. If her Kushiel exists, that's you laughing at me, isn't it?" Bitter, bitter laughter echoed through the room, so much louder than the whispered laments if one who no longer trusted gods. "The monster that can't bear to see people hurt. Oh yes, this'll hurt me more than it hurts you. Funny joke I make, ha-ha fucking ha, it ends up true. Laugh it up, gods of Terre D'Ange. You and your _'love as thou wilt'_. What of the unloved and the hated? What do we do? There is no Terre D'Ange that lies beyond for us. Keep your love, Elua, your mercy, Kushiel. Naamah, keep your desire.... me ... possible. All it does... Tease me... hope."  
  
Belle couldn't listen anymore to the fading whispers, and half stumbled her way out of the tower, eyes bloodshot.  
  
She never wanted to witness that kind of cruelty again. No matter that he was sick and terrified, _he_ was the one who had enacted it. It was _his_ actions that broke a woman as strong and brave as the Comtesse. He had treated her monstrously, even if he loathed himself for it. What reason could there be to justify _that_? How could she reconcile this to the man she had thought she knew?  
  
Belle spent the rest of the day curled up in the dungeon cell, trying to erase the sounds of Phèdre's desperate cries from her memory.  
  
In his tower, Rumplestiltskin did the same, to less effect.  
  
Only the poppy dosed _anguissette_ slept without nightmares. She had earned that peace, earned it a thousand times over.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...oops. This thing got long. It didn't seem that way when I was writing it! I swear! When I plugged it into word I was expecting maybe 1900 words.

Belle awoke the morning after that terrible ordeal with a thousand thoughts assaulting her. Her eyes were puffy from the sobbing, and she was still dressed in the gown from the previous day, which she tore from her body in disgust. Just having been in the vicinity of that torture had tainted her, and she fought the urge to throw the clothing into a fire and scrub her skin raw.  
  
She had to be brave. Dressing in sober grey, a modest piece that showed no skin below her collar bone, she made her way out to the receiving hall, only to find a note on the long table.  
  
"Belle,  
You are to move into the suite adjoining that of the D'Angelines immediately, your possessions will be transported presently. You are to tend to the pair, magic will serve to assist you in any task you require.   
  
Your other duties are suspended until further notice.I will remain in the tower. Do not under any circumstance attempt to enter. If the castle is burning down around you, or an army is at the gate, you do nothing. On pain of death, I order this."  
  
There was no signature, but the note hardly needed one. She knew well enough who it was from.   
  
Well, she had her orders. Eyes downcast, she approached the suite the D'Angelines were staying in, and after some hesitation rapped on the door.  
  
Phèdre called out for her to enter, and Belle found herself in room transformed. The bed had doubled in size, and was so covered in pillows that the Comtesse appeared to be lounging on a cloud. She was bare to the waist and lying on her stomach, though she rolled to her side as Belle entered and approached the bed to sit on the end of it.  
  
Joscelin was beside the window, practicing his Cassiline forms, telling the hours, they called it. He was in peak form, despite his battered shoulder. He didn't look up at her entry, so engrossed in his art.  
  
"Comtesse, I have been asked to attend on yourself and your consort, is there anything you need?"  
  
Phèdre gave a lazy wave of denial. "No, I'm doing quite well, thank you." She looked much better already, where her face had been a mass of bruises was only the faint yellowing of an old black eye, and the lash marks that striped her hide not weeping sores, but scabbed over without a hint of infection. She was dotted with tiny angry red sores, like needle pricks, which were disturbing more in number than anything else, and Belle quickly averted her gaze from where the burns on her breasts showed. The only thing that looked as bad as Belle remembered it was the strip of flesh sewn back into place.   
  
Phèdre noticed her staring and stretched, visibly wincing when the skin on her back pulled at its stitches. "I heal clean. It is part of my gift."  
  
"Curse is more like it." Belle said, shuddering. "I can't imagine what you must go through."  
  
Joscelin had finished his forms and come to claim a kiss from Phèdre before sitting down beside her with a jar of ointment, which he carefully applied to her wounds.  
  
"I've been injured far more gravely than this before." Phèdre began, though Joscelin cut her off.  
  
"Your flesh has been injured more," He said, "But your spirit, your heart, has never been so shattered."  
  
Phèdre nodded in guilty agreement. "It may be true. But the scars I bear on my heart are ones I accepted. Only in purest pain could I produce the tears that are the first part of the bargain. No pleasure could dilute them."  
  
Belle's eyes widened. "But, I thought your, your gift? Doesn't, isn't it impossible?"  
  
"Some things are beyond even the gods to transcend." Phèdre replied cryptically. "And in truth, with any other being, I could have expected to be used far more than I was. Many patrons of mine would have thrilled at rutting against me to enflame my passions, force me to pleasure them with mouth and hands. He didn't ask anything of the sort. He may have insulted me, spit on me, but he did not want to see me as an object of desire. He wouldn't let it happen, it would betray his true emotions, the ones he's trying so hard to deny."  
  
Joscelin made a disgusted sound. "You still believe him capable of love, after all that?"  
  
Phèdre smiled, catlike in her enjoyment of his hands on her back. "Oh, I'm sure of it. He knows what we have, Joscelin, and would not come between us. That is, after all, why he's requiring your assistance with the second component."  
  
Belle, cursing her curiosity, had to ask. "And what is that? If it's anything like the first, please, nothing, nothing!, could be worth that."  
  
"Oh no, quite the opposite. Still tears, yes, but the kind only Joscelin can bring me to."   
  
The Cassiline looked skeptical, but Phèdre continued. "It will have to wait until I've healed, but these tears are to be of purest pleasure, untainted by pain."  
  
What Phèdre didn't mention was that in the letter she had received, this revelation was accompanied by a rather heart wrenching remark. 'Though I have magic enough to cause desire, I am in no way capable of bringing pleasure to any woman, as past experience has proven. As I am only suitable to inspire revulsion and fear, I will leave this in the hands of your consort. It is only right that the one who loves you most guide you to this greatest happiness.'  
  
Some of this must have showed to Joscelin, who whispered something in D'Angeline to comfort her. Belle simply watched, entranced by their closeness. Remembering herself at last, she busied herself by bustling about the room, picking up discarded bandages and stacking fallen tomes on a side table. She glanced at the floor, wondering if it would need scrubbing. Probably not, but the linens would need frequent changing, if Phèdre's wounds were bleeding or weeping at all.  
  
"Is there anything I can do for you?" She asked when things have been tidied to her satisfaction.  
  
Joscelin and Phèdre exchanged a look. "Stay with us a while, Belle." He said, and Phèdre nodded in agreement. "It must get terribly lonely, here all alone."  
  
Belle, unthinking, responded with the words in her heart. "Oh but I'm not alone, not really. I mean, he goes off to make deals but that just means I have an afternoon off and when he returns there are the most fascinating stories."  
  
Joscelin frowned. "I meant equals, Belle. With no one but your captor,"  
  
"He's not my captor!" Belle snapped. "He, he's my employer. I work here, and along with being provided for more than adequately for the work I do, my wages are the continued safety of my village and my people from the Ogres that would destroy them."  
  
Joscelin shook his head. "A leonine bargain, if ever there was. I expect the Ogres answer to him then?"  
  
Belle scoffed. "Hardly. They're terrified of him. He ended the first Ogre War with a sweep of his hand, many years ago. However awful he may seem to you, he is the worst nightmare of Ogres, and therefore mine and my villages savior. I made my choice to serve him."  
  
Phèdre cleared her throat. "But there was no other choice, was there? You go, or you die?"  
  
Belle shrugged one shoulder, smoothing the skirt of her gown to avoid looking at the proof of her master's cruelty. "I don't know. When he named me as his price, a caretaker isn't much different from the marriage I would have to look forward to if some other bargain was reached. I didn't ask, and I didn't let my father make the choice for me. I stepped forward and agreed to his terms. Now instead of hosting endless useless dinners and birthing heirs to a man I had no love for, I'm battling dustbunnies in the museum of precious artifacts, eating meals cooked by magic, and watching the worlds most powerful man attempt to be intimidating while drinking tea with three spoons of sugar from a chipped china cup." She couldn't help the laughter that escaped her with that last bit. He didn't frighten her anymore, not now that she'd learned to tell truth from jest. At least until yesterday, he hadn't. When he returned from a deal crowing about how he pulled one over on some fool trying to cheat him, the glee was infectious. Likewise when a deal was to no ones real benefit, and would cause only suffering, he would take to the wheel and spin for hours.  
  
"He, he cares about people. Wants them to not take things for granted. So many people come to him for petty trifles! Things that they never needed magic to get, if they only worked at it."  
  
"And you, Belle? Could your village have survived without Rumplestiltskin's intervention?" Phèdre was a scholar, and an expert on reading people. Every new meeting was a challenge for her deductive skills, and it was never too late to refine her abilities further. But Belle was without guile, only good breeding holding her tongue from unpleasant truths.  
  
"Maybe." Belle chewed on her lower lip.  "If we ran. We couldn't defeat them, but we might have been able to get some of the highest ranking people and the treasury away before the wave hit. But the majority would die, and we would be refugees. Magic was our last resort."  
  
Joscelin still looked uncomfortable, and with reason. Being sold into slavery once in his life was more than enough. Phèdre, who had willingly sold herself into a worse hell once to save a single life, understood what Belle must have been thinking when she made her choice.   
  
"It's a gilded cage, Belle, but still a cage."  
  
Belle fought back tears. "So? All my life has been a cage, trading one for the other from the time I was small. In this cage, at least, I am not silenced for trying to sing, I can at least see the sun.  The cage of daughter? I couldn't speak out for fear of risking my father's position. The cage of wife I was to have was more of the same, only with added burdens that would imprison me further within the cage of mother, where I would then be forced to cage any daughters I might live to bear." She dabbed at her face with a sleeve.  "Do I regret that I will not be able to go on grand adventures, seeking my fortune and true love? Maybe. But those dreams were never within my reach to begin with, so I can't really mourn their loss. And," She forced a smile, "I get to be a hero. Some little girl out there is alive because of my sacrifice, and maybe the priests back home will have them pray and give thanks to me."  
  
Phèdre, who had an inkling of how the world worked, had to agree. "If your story is known, I expect a cult will form around you, the brave and noble girl who defied her father to save others. The Beauty whose heart was so pure a great sorcerer found her mere company worth ending a war for. Who saved countless people, just by loving them without asking anything in return." Joscelin finally seemed to fold under Phèdre's plotting, and sighed.  
  
"Phèdre's right. If it is known, every girl who sees her family struggling will pray to you for the strength to save them, to do what is needed to put food on the table. Every waif looking for the courage to spend another night on the street without resorting to selling her body will give thanks to you for protecting her long enough to look for an escape. Every penniless father will look at his only daughter, scarce more than a child and already hiring herself out as housekeeper, and say, 'my girl, she has the blessing of Lady Belle herself' as he kisses her in a tearful goodbye."  
  
Belle flushed at this, angered by the idea that people would strive to emulate her. "But they shouldn't have to! It is the duty of the nobility to make sacrifices so that our people aren't called to do the same. They give us their loyalty and trust, and in return, we protect them, with our lives if need be."  
  
Joscelin sat up straight and looked at Belle as if seeing through her. "Name of Elua, Phèdre, she sounds just like Ysandre."  
  
"Y-you mean your queen?" Belle was stunned by this statement.  
  
"Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange and my dear friend." Phèdre confirmed. "And you're right, she does. She sounds just like Ysandre, when she rode to reclaim her throne from Percy de Somerville. Elua bless you, Belle."  
  
Belle was embarrassed by the compliments, but didn't want to offend the pair. "Phèdre, if it isn't too much to ask, I've always wanted to see the world, and while my body is forced to remain here, I love to listen to tales of far off lands. Could you tell me about Tere d'Ange? What your land is like, what the people are like? I was told the history of Elua, and I've read the poems you gave me, thank you for those by the way, but I lack context."  
  
"Did you enjoy the other books I brought?" Phèdre's dark eyes were sparkling with mischief and Joscelin quickly excused himself, saying he needed to wash up after his exercises and the ointment. Phèdre laughed and called him a coward, running away from talk of Naamah's work, to which he gladly agreed, bowing on his way out.  
  
"Belle, if you want to understand Terre d'Ange, you have to understand the Court Of Night Blooming Flowers. The thirteen houses of the Night Court are a treasure. We enter into Naamah's service, when we come of age, and until that time children fostered in the Night Court learn how to serve, how to walk without sound, how to cross a crowded room unobtrusively, carrying a tray without spilling a drop. If we have a talent for it, we learn to sing, compose poetry, to tumble and dance and entertain. We learn massage, dressing for nobility and priesthood. We have clothiers and seamstresses, weavers, dream readers. It's more than just sex. Long before the arts of the bedchamber, we are taught to harness our beauty, and to be pleasing servants in every way. I learned languages, recitation, to write with a fine hand. A Night Court education is as fine as any a noble and many a royal would receive." Phèdre stood, wrapping a sheet around her as she did, more for Belle's sake than out of any modesty. Even now that youth was waning, she knew her body was fine and suitable to elicit desire from many. If she was once thought a prize for kings, none of it had faded. She knelt, abeyante, on the ground. "We learn obedience, and we learn how to be a perfect ornament. And yes, we then learn the art of desire. Are you blushing?" The Comtesse didn't raise her eyes, her body perfectly motionless, even her steady breathing not causing a quiver. "You shouldn't be embarrassed. To give homage to Naamah is a form of worship. We are not common whores, and at the time we make our marque, we are free to make a new life based on our other skills, fostered by the house whose name we bear. It's not degrading, as the courtesans of other lands may find it. The service of Naamah is as much a priesthood, and we make our journeys to Her temples."  
  
Phèdre gestured for Belle to join her, and with some difficulty, she managed to mimic the position. It was strange, even though Belle was technically a servant, she was never treated as lowly. Not quite an equal, but neither was she worthless. Hearing the ways proper servants would act was an education in itself.   
  
"Speak low, only when spoken to, never raise your eyes unbidden. Be silent and quick about your tasks, it is a mark of pride to be all but invisible when not called to act as ornamental. I learned these things better than most, my gift, my imperfection, rendering me unsuitable for service in any of the Thirteen Houses. No House canon allows for flawed goods."  
  
Belle gasped at that, and Phèdre smiled knowingly. "You see me now, and you think me beautiful, but trust me when I say Kushiel's Dart, to unknowing eyes, would be said to mar my beauty beyond hope. Lucky for me there is more to being Kushiel's Chosen."  
  
Belle, while she would never be a scholar like Phèdre, had a love of reading and learning. She ventured a comment. "Kushiel, the Punisher, yes?"  
  
"Of course, you've not heard this part of the tales. 'Mighty Kushiel, of rod and weal/Late of the brazen portals/With blood-tipp'd dart a wound unhealed/Pricks the eyen of chosen mortals.'" It was a calm tone, and lovely, as everything to do with D'Angelines invariably was, and it caused Belle to shiver despite herself. She was silent then, entranced by the way Phèdre related in brief the natures of the Thirteen Houses, their canons, and what trades their adepts might take once their marque, the elaborate tattoo which ran the length of their spine and served as a measure of their term of indenture, was complete.  
  
From there she elaborated on the providences that made up Terre d'Ange, and which of the Companions they were named for.   
  
"Montrève is beautiful. It's in the Siovale mountains, a paradise of green valleys and hills and sweet meadows. It's sheep country, so my chief income is from the flocks. I was so stunned to inherit the estate, my lord Delaunay never inherited it, having been disowned for binding his heart and life to the Dauphin Rolande and forgoing to bear heirs, but a clause in his mothers will had it returned to Delaunay's heirs, myself, and Alcuin, who had perished in the same attack that claimed his life. Montrève allows me to be closer to his memory, visiting the library, walking the same halls Delaunay raced through as a child."  
  
"You miss him greatly." Belle ventured, hearing the wistfulness in the Comtesse's tone, the way she seemed to forget the purpose and linger on personal elements, rather than cultural.  
  
"I do."She agreed, but it was more than that. "I loved him, and I continue to love him. How could I not? With two words he changed me from flawed goods to a prize. He was my savior from ignominy, and while it may seem petty and shallow, to my child self that was a fate worse than death. I could never repay him, but I think, in carrying out his will and honoring his oaths, I may have done my part to live up to his dreams for me."  
  
Belle diverted the conversation from such painful recollections, and asked for more information on the City of Elua, the Palace, and Ysandre. It worked for a short time, but discussing the Royal family meant discussing Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel, who she feared to lose as much as anything, and it was at that point Joscelin returned, and lifted Phèdre into his arms as if she were a child, bearing her back to the bed before Belle could see the tears that fell, though unable to hide the way her shoulders shook. Making her excuses, she hastily retreated, promising to return in a short while with food.

\----

When the door had shut, Joscelin went to work soothing Phèdre, who, for all her brave words, was not anywhere near recovered. She needed tenderness now, and that was something he had always held for her.  
  
Kissing away the tears, threading his hands through her hair, he pulled her into his arms, a shield against the world. The gentle touch of his kisses, featherlight against her neck, caused her hands to fist in the fabric of his shirt, clutching and needy.   
  
His touch was careful as he stroked her arms, her breasts, danced over her hips to rest on her slim waist. Her hands slid under his shirt, and he allowed her to remove it, recapturing her mouth for a deep kiss as soon as she had done so.  
  
"Joscelin, I need..." He silenced her, hands at her breasts, kneading gently. A nip at her lower lip pulled a groan, and her hands sought his phallus, teasing through the grey trousers he wore. Yes, she needed this. With a glimmer of mischief, Joscelin used his strength to flip them around so he was kneeling between her legs,  trailing kisses down her stomach to her thighs, before his mouth sought her pleasure, questing tongue easily finding Naamah's Pearl and lapping at it, long knowledge enabling him to bring Phèdre to the edge quickly, but there he lingered.  
  
They both sensed it, that the need here was less of pleasure and more of touch, and so, he paused, diverted himself, let his hands roam her flesh even as hers tangled in his hair, guiding, urging.   
  
How long it was before he resumed would differ depending which of the pair was asked, but when he did, he drew cries of delight from her that rang out clearly for any to hear. Phèdre called out his name in a tumbling mass of prayers and praises, and when her climax took her, he held her hips steady and smiled against her flesh.  
  
Like a beast stalking prey, he crawled up the bed to lay beside her, and laughed when she seized his belt, making quick work of his remaining clothing.  "You don't think you're getting away with just that, do you?" She asked, taking him in hand with a slight squeeze.  
  
He answered with a groan and a nod. "You need rest, Phèdre." He whispered her name like a prayer, eyes falling closed as her other hand trailed across his chest.  
  
"I need you, Joscelin. My perfect companion." She hissed at the pull of her stitches, the pain only a goad to her pleasure, and settled herself atop him, guiding with her hand until she could sink onto his length with a sigh.  
  
They remained thus joined for some time, unmoving. Holding to one another, no need for words, before slowly, almost torturously so, Joscelin began to move. His hands at her hips lifted Phèdre gently, and when she leaned down to claim a kiss, tongues meeting in a desperate dance, she began to rock against him.   
  
Minutes that felt like days passed, and salt tears mingled with sweat as they held one another, every motion a prayer. Even in the desperation of their lovemaking, they knew this was how they would be healed. As they had been after Daršanga, they would be made whole.  
  
It was several rounds of mutual pleasures before they had exhausted themselves, and twice Belle had approached the door and scampered away on hearing them, giving them their privacy.

\----

Up in the tower, Rumplestiltskin read, the thick volumes of Phèdre's accounts heavy in his hands. He had to stop often, at first to make notes, but then as he neared the end, it was to breathe and compose himself, lest tears stain the pages. In the end, it hurt, to see a mirror of his own thoughts writ on the page, knowing that happiness was granted to one but yet evaded the other.  
  
 _“It’s been a long time, Phèdre. I thought, at first, mayhap I could change this role, this place ... bring a touch of light, of mirth, cast it in my image instead of  his.”  He shook his head. “I was wrong. It was too hard, too long, too lonely. And the power ... it isolates. It changed me instead. And now?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve become like  him"_  
  
And hadn't he just? He'd wanted to turn it to good, before the power changed him, too. Power, he thought, is a dangerous blade that cuts the wielder as well as the target.  
  
 _"But I have become the Master of the Straits, and I do not know how to be anything else."_  
  
Could he remember how to be aught other than the Dark One, after so many years? It was hard to remember what it was like, not having this power, save that it hurt. He remembered that it hurt his heart, but little else.  
  
Bae wouldn't know what to make of him, and he had no idea if he could still be a father. The Tsinigano had only spent twelve years on his godsforsaken island, and it forever changed him. He'd centuries of isolation and power to mold him to somewhat else. To be a vessel for this dark power for so long... Is that the kind of being who should ever come in contact with Bae, his bright beautiful boy, courageous and kind.   
  
"I'm not fit for human company. Taking on the maid proved that. Bet she's thinking of trying to run off with the D'Angelines. Well, can't say I'd blame her, even if it is doomed to failure. Now she's seen the extent of my corruption. Any _sensible_ girl would flee in disgust." He laughed at the thought of it. Sensible girls were an uncommon breed. It was easy enough to find dozens of silly chits seeking power who would try and fail as his apprentice. Never once did they stop to think what it was he got out of teaching them.  
  
He drank, horrible rotgut rather than anything refined, even though there was a crate of Lemurian wine in the storeroom which could have had him unconscious by the third glass. He wasn't doing this for the pleasure of being drunk, he was punishing himself, and the worse his head hurt when he woke the better.  
  
It was lucky he was immortal, because by the time he'd stopped drinking the better part of a moats worth had gone down his throat, and he was unable to stand.  
  
"Y'hear me gods of Terre d'Ange? Fuck you! Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Fuck your 'love as thou wilt' and fuck your justice! Fuck it all, but I won't fuck your whores!" He'd chucked an empty bottle at the wall, giggling madly when it shattered, using magic to summon the larger pieces to his hand, to be crushed under his boot. As he ground the glass to dust with his heel he sang off key, conducting an orchestra of ghosts with one clawed hand.  
  
"...He'll save you a blonde for ten silver, oh gods how the money rolls in!"  
  
"Rolls in, rolls in, oh gods how the money rolls in, rolls in! Rolls in, rolls in, oh gods how the money rolls in!"

\----

  
With orders given not to approach the tower, Belle only heard vague echoes of drunken singing, and thought herself lucky. Her new chambers were nearly as fine as Rumplestiltskin's own, though smaller, and she had not only a desk, but a set of shelves behind it to hold her books. A fine wardrobe stood in the corner, and because she was directly above the kitchen, the floor would be warm even to bare feet.  Between bringing meals to Phèdre and Joscelin, she'd spent considerable time staring at the closed volumes Phèdre had given her, fighting down her blushes.  
  
The Comtesse had said there was nothing to be ashamed of, and surely just the knowledge couldn't do any harm. Looking about guiltily, as if Rumplestiltskin might be lurking and watching over her shoulder, she chose one of the books and began.  
  
It would be an... Enlightening night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing happens in this chapter. There was supposed to be things happening in this chapter, instead no one would shut up and remarks were made to reference lots of things. Belle gets an infodump about D'Angeline fertility, and the dagger is talked about without actually being talked about. Also Joscelin tries to give priestly advice.
> 
> It doesn't go so well.

Belle had no one to blame but herself for her present condition. The Comtesse had warned her about the consequences of reading those books, and overconfident in her knowledge, Belle hadn't heeded her.  
  
So she felt shame in that her reading had kept her awake until her candles had run out, and that her dreams were vivid and not conductive to restful sleep. Worst of all, she couldn't look either Phèdre or Joscelin in the eye, as if they would know with a glance of her night-time readings.  
  
The books were not vulgar, but Belle had had limited exposure to such ideas, even in the romances she read. The way each kiss and caress was detailed, step by step, instructing lover and beloved as to the bodies reactions, she heated simply remembering the most basic of touches.  
  
What was more, the partnerships were not as she was accustomed to, not only acts of man and wife, but also lovers of the same sex, or man or woman alone, or of three, four, more, were detailed. Objects, _aides d'amor_ were catalogued, their uses explained and diagrammed! Some of the illustrations Belle was certain would have been subject to burning in her homeland.  
  
It was thus difficult to look upon Phèdre, who had not only studied these texts, but professed to have employed all the arts therein, and many only hinted at, herself.  
  
Not even Joscelin took pity on her, when she stammered in her serving and yawned, he shared a secret smile with Phèdre and commented her gift must have been appreciated.  
  
And Phèdre! Shameless wasn't even half the word to describe her, she offered tutoring in the arts. "You would enjoy yourself much more if you learned how to sate your desires. Unless of course you have another bed you'd rather seek..."  
  
"Please don't joke about my employment my lady. I thought I made it clear I didn't resent that I will not be marrying, so it is rather rude of you to mock me for it. " Belle's face was crimson as she spoke, and the breakfast tray rattled in her hands from the shaking. She wasn't certain if it was anger, shame, or lack of sleep which caused the tremors, but Belle resolved to get them under control before she went to serve Rumplestiltskin, who had left his tower after a full day shut up in it. She rather feared what she would find there, the clothing he had left for her to launder stank of cheap liquor and vomit. She had no notion how she was going to get it clean. If an entire day of drinking was to be common for her master, Belle might have to take up the habit herself, just to keep sane.  
  
  
"She's not mocking you, dearie, the _anguisette_ merely doesn't know how to relate to people without bedding them." Belle was able to save the tray from disaster only by luck, and still managed to slosh the pitcher of juice around enough to spill some. She kept her eyes glued to tray, taking deep breaths as she set it aside.  
  
He'd just appeared right behind her. He shouldn't do that! It wasn't, wasn't. Wasn't what? Polite? Proper? Had she forgotten who she was serving? It wasn't fair, she was already so on edge and then to have a body so close she could feel the heat radiating from him, it sparked all sorts of primal responses, where flight was just the one she had nearly given into this time.  
  
"If jumping into bed granted understanding, the girls at the cat house would be treated with respect rather than scorn." She said, trying to muster up a ounce of wit to save herself embarrassment. Besides, whenever she managed to say something clever, she was granted an odd little smile that was far more welcome than the scoldings speaking her mind had brought in her father's court.  
  
"And well they should!" Phèdre interrupted, indignant. "The way this land regards pleasure houses is barbaric!"  
  
Rumplestiltskin merely groaned and rolled his eyes.

  
"Oh now you've done it. I'm not having a debate on the treatment of brothel girls, and that's that!" He barely allowed Belle to set right the tray and goods before taking her by the elbow and steering her to the chamber door. "Come along now Belle my lovely, can't have her filling your mind with revolution."  
  
Well, one thing was certain. Belle had been spending too much time with the D'Angelines. Why, she'd almost believed Rumplestiltskin had been going to call her 'my love' and that was surely only because of that nonsense Joscelin had said about thinking her employer infatuated with her. And it was only those horrid books that had her thinking about how careful his grip on her arm was, how his fingers trailed across her skin as he released her.  
  
Damn her curiosity! And damn to the depths those leather trousers! When she lowered her eyes (as was proper) they were all she could see. And the books had been too detailed in describing disrobing, there had even been significant text devoted to how unlacing might be done with ones teeth.  
  
"Damn _anguisette_ doesn't know how lucky she is." Rumplestiltskin must have been feeling chatty, which was a welcome mood considering he should have a hangover that would flatten an army. "Did you know that D'Angeline women have a magic that any woman of this realm, from common whores to kings mistresses, would cheerfully murder for?" At her open mouthed disbelief he gave one of his tittering laughs. "Oh you doubt, but I bet you'd pick up a knife quite quickly if it would grant you this. Until they perform a certain ritual, woman of D'Angeline blood can not conceive a child. No wonder they have their pleasure houses so well regarded, not a one of them needs worry a client will put a babe in her belly."  
  
Belle had to admit, it did give a different perspective on courtesans, if they had that much control over if they would ever bear a child. Why, a woman who feared to die in child-bed need not become a hermit, could seek her pleasure at will. Indeed, it made much more sense how the books spoke of women taking lovers so casually. So many women felt their youth ended with their first child, to be able to put that off, until the means to support a child were available. Well, that was appealing, but cheerful murder it did not inspire in her heart. Did Rumplestiltskin think so little of females as that? She made to speak this thought when he continued.  
  
"I've never heard of a D'Angeline with the pox, so apparently _that_ risk of bedding half the town is unknown. Most women wait to ask their womb to be made fertile until their wedding night, if they even choose to do so at all. And of course, until they do, they need not worry about womb tides, no bloodied rags to wash, none of that nonsense of days spent hiding their pains."  
  
Belle's face grew heated with mixed shame (that a man might speak so frankly of her courses to her) and anger (that the Comtesse could be so amused by Belle's 'innocence' when she'd never had to endure moons blood, and never would if she so chose.) While it was a gift she would not deny envying, she doubted it would justify murder for any but the most desperate, which she was not. She didn't begrudge her body it's moons days, her work suffered little from them, and her employer, apparently, wasn't going to mock her weakness from them. She'd manage just fine, thank you very much. But best keep to the jesting tone, she preferred this kind of companionship. Better to joke about knives than think about her body, and D'Angeline courtships.  
  
"Well there's no knife that I could take up to grant me that gift, is there? So there's no reason for me to become a murderess." Belle glanced at him as she moved to stoke the fire in the great hall, and something in his posture gave her pause.  
  
The Dark One seemed to grow deathly serious, as if her joke had sparked a grave memory in him, or a premonition of some sort. "And even if there was such a knife, for that prize, you would have to pay far more than my little caretaker could afford. Forget I mentioned it." It was not a request, it was an order.  
  
That, more than any stubborn act of will, managed to thoroughly dispel all lingering thoughts and emotions sparked by her reading, leaving Belle feeling cold and once again unsure of what sort of creature she'd sold herself to.  
  


\---

  
Joscelin knew that Phèdre had made a mistake here. He didn't know how he was going to explain it to her, but he knew that she'd taken a wrong turning with how she was approaching this situation between their host and his housekeeper.  
  
He knew because he had been there, and trying to force a man in this position to admit love to himself and the object of his affection was the worst way to go about it. It took so much to bring himself and Phèdre together, and there wasn't an invading army to hand, so matters need be dealt with differently.  
  
Moreover, he knew what Phèdre was trying so hard to forget. Hyacinthe was never wrong in his predictions, and Rumplestiltskin and his maid would soon be parted, 'never to meet again until both have come to the next world.'  
  
If they were to have even a brief happiness, it wasn't going to be the job of an _anguisette_ to bring it to fruition. At least not on this end of things. Oh, he'd leave Belle to Phèdre's un-tender mercies, it was entirely her place to bring the innocent to understanding.  
  
But, loathe though he may be to admit it, Rumplestiltskin was a man. At least in these matters. And Elua only knew what vow he was bound by that had him fighting his heart. Kindred spirits in a way he would never tell Phèdre, Joscelin knew he needed to speak to the Dark One, man to man.  
  
It took some doing to escape from both his beloved and the maid, but finally a conversation turned again to Night Court politics, and he excused himself, hiding a smile when Phèdre's laugh accused him of being embarrassed by the arts of the salon after all their years.  
  
"I'm merely giving miss Belle the courtesy of not having a strange man about when woman’s matters might be discussed. You certainly don't need my help, and you're safe as if we were in Montrève itself." He gave his Cassiline bow, arms crossed. "As you've reminded me, milady, I am not Cassiel, but a mere mortal. I won't be far."  
  
In fact, he'd barely left the luxurious chambers appointed them before he encountered the castle's lord, looking quite surprised at seeing him.  
  
"Ah, Cassiline, your lady send you away did she?" Rumplestiltskin's mocking tone was quite welcome, it meant the Dark One was in a cheerful mood, and that meant he'd be less likely to turn violent.  
  
"Actually, my lord, I wanted to speak to you, regarding something that Phèdre may have said to you." It took some effort to keep from touching his daggers, this was no time to appear a threat.  
  
"We'll leave the girls to their fripperies then," A wave of his hand dissolved the halls and Joscelin found himself in a dark sitting room, cramped, and smelling of old smoke, as if the room was never aired. In fact, that was probably the case, as he could see neither window nor door, though the walls were lined with cabinets, one of which surely disguised the entrance. Even the fire was of a dusty quality, and the creak of leather was loud in the silence. He wondered if it was a storage room turned sitting room or vice versa, but as the answer was of no consequence, didn't voice the thought.  
  
Rumplestiltskin sat enthroned in a high backed leather chair, tapping the fingers of one hand on the arm impatiently as he gestured to Joscelin to take a seat in the match beside him.  
  
"So, what is it that you fear the anguisette may have told me, that you seek me out in private?" He asked the moment the Cassiline had settled himself.  
  
"Phèdre has a way with people," Joscelin began carefully, "but is often blind to certain... Bindings." He waited to be sure he hadn't overstepped his bounds, and at the impatient gesture, continued. "She forgets, at times, that I'm a priest of Cassiel, that there's more than a vow to protect and serve that makes a member of the Cassiline Brotherhood. I can see certain things, and, please stop me if I am mistaken, you appear to be serving an oath of your own." Seeing the expression, Joscelin raised a hand wardingly. "I'll not ask what kind, nor will I speak of it to anyone, I simply thought I recognized a struggle I've long held within myself. To keep to my vows, or follow my heart. And I'm no one to tell you which to choose, if you're facing that choice. Both bring pain." In fact, pain was too small a word for what he faced, every day he spent with Phèdre he made the same choice, and it never got any easier, he simply had gotten so much better at making that choice. No matter how many times he stood at the crossroads, he would choose the path of the Companion every time, damned though he may be for it. Cassiel defied the One God to remain, steadfast, at Elua's side, and though he was no Cassiel, and Phèdre no Elua, he'd make the same choice. But not everyone would or could make that choice, for some, the oath was greater than the self, and even obeying the spirit of the oath alone would not allow for the heart to be served.  
  
"Blessed Elua bid us love as we will, and though he never trod this land, I think you've seen the appeal of his ways. But it's not always possible to love as we will, when what we love comes to be two mutually exclusive paths." Rumplestiltskin watched him like a cat watches a butterfly it isn't sure if it's going to be bothered to swat, and Joscelin had to touch the hilts of his daggers for courage before continuing, which only made him appear more amused. Of course, acting nervous made him more like prey, and gave Rumplestiltskin more power over him. "But, as a priest, I want to offer this unsolicited advice: I didn't know how much I loved and needed Phèdre until I was forced to do without her, thinking her dead because of my own failure. I wouldn't wish that pain on my worst foe, and you are far from that."  
  
Something twisted Rumplestiltskin's face as he listened, and he finally stood, so the glowing embers gave his unearthly skin an even more demonic cast. "As a monster, let me give you this advice, Cassiline. Do not think you know anything about me. Do not think your love being locked away on that seaside rock of a prison could even begin to compare to the pain I could cause you. Do not think I don't know what you've 'suffered', how willingly you cast aside you vows for a warm bed. You may comfort yourself by saying you made Cassiel's choice, oh don't give me that astounded face I've read every word of your tale, anathema. I am not a man, and yet I am more a man of my word than you. The vows I make bind for centuries. And I know that my oath would be forced to be set aside for 'love' as if any such thing comes to a creature such as me. And unlike you, anathema, I do not break my word." Venom dripped from every word, and Joscelin touched his dagger hilts again, a reminder he wouldn't go down without a fight.  
  
"You think I don't _know_ what you and that gods marked bitch _really_ came here for? If it was just about the pages the Master of Straits would have come himself, and we'd have had an accord in ten minutes, even now that satchel would be safely stored in a trunk in my dungeons. You _pretend_ , you and the whore, that you do this for others, when really this is about _you_. About escaping your empty nest and pretending you are young again and making a play at being heroes again rather than face the fact your star has set. Clinging to the glory of the past and running away from the future, trying to hide from the lines in your face and the grey in your hair. That, anathema, is why you are here. Your love is stale and your home is quiet, you're jealous of the fact you haven't saved the realm in so long people regard you as the heroes of the past, and know you can't do it any more. Your arm is stiff, your form grown sloppy, you can see the flesh on your once perfect whore begin to sag. You've realized you've damned yourself eternally for a 'love' that will rot away as all meat does. And she sees her youth fleeing, sees all the chances she never took for herself out of fear of upsetting you. She wonders if she would have been happier had she gone with the woman, lived her life being tested by the one person with whom she was perfectly matched. You'll never be Melisande, you'll never even be Hyacinthe. And both of them had her heart before you. Do you enjoy being the one she settled for? She could have been the Master of Straits, she could have had all that power." His voice kept on, speaking poison with every accusation, every little detail of their lives another twist of the knife. It was only the greatest discipline that kept Joscelin seated as he heard his lady spoken of so.  
  
"But she didn't want that, no, that power would cage her, and she wanted to be free to do as she pleased, the Queen of Courtesans. And what does she get instead? Shackled to a Cassiline prude who will never play exquisite music on her body as the gods intended, who will seethe with jealousy when she seeks out those who can."  
  
The embers flared to life now, filling the room with dancing shadows. "And you know what the worst of it is? She'll always wonder if her dear Delaunay would be _alive_ today, had the Prefect sent another Brother instead of the untried _boy_."  
  
As he spoke, Joscelin grew more and more enraged, but at the last a tranquil calm descended and he nearly laughed. He'd tried too hard at the end, and lost his credibility. For as much as Rumplestiltskin obviously knew about Phèdre, how not when her life was quite literally an open book to him now, he'd misjudged her in the end. So many before him had misjudged her, and it was amusing to see that didn't change no matter the world.  
  
Because no matter how many times Joscelin might blame himself for failing Delaunay, Phèdre never did, and had told him as much before. It is not to mortals to mourn the might have been, and Anafiel Delaunay had died well, he'd not take that from such a man.

So Joscelin remained calm, and shook his head. "As you wish. Keep your oath as you will, I have no right to judge you. Just, it's _your_ vow, and your happiness is yours to throw away. But your if happiness would be with another, then remember that by denying yourself happiness with them, you deny _them_ happiness with _you_ as well." 

Rumplestiltskin waved a hand and Joscelin found himself back in the hall, not knowing if his words had made any difference. But he had tried, and that was all that he could do.


End file.
